Blue Labyrinth

A candy wrapper, a recently drilled hole… such things weren’t necessarily co

Had it really come from Angler’s desk — or had Slade even shown it to Angler before misfiling it?

Albany. That was another thing. Hadn’t Slade said Angler was away, visiting relatives upstate?

He trotted back to his office and, without bothering to turn on the lights, typed his password into the computer and accessed the homicide department’s perso

He grabbed his phone, dialed the number on his computer screen. It rang three times before it was answered.

“Hello?” came a woman’s voice.

“Is this Marjorie Angler? My name is Vincent D’Agosta. I’m a lieutenant with the NYPD. Is Lieutenant Angler there?”

“No. He’s not staying with me.”

“When did you last speak with him?”

“Let me see — four, five days ago, I think.”

“May I ask what you talked about?”

“He said he was coming upstate. Some investigation he was working on. He said he was rushed for time, but that he hoped to stop by to see me on the way back to New York City. But he never did — I imagine he was too busy, as usual.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Yes. Adirondack. Is there a problem of some sort?”

“Not that I know of. Listen, Ms. Angler, you’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome—” the voice began again, but D’Agosta was already hanging up.

He was breathing faster now. Adirondack. Home of Red Mountain Industries.

Several days before, Angler had been on his way to Adirondack. Why hadn’t he returned to the city? He seemed to have disappeared. Why had Slade lied about his whereabouts? Or was Slade merely mistaken? And the hole: it was exactly the kind of hole you would use to plant a miniature microphone.

Had Slade embedded a wire microphone in the wall of his office? If so, he’d listened in on D’Agosta’s phone calls. And he’d no doubt also listened in on his conversation with Margo and Constance.

The hole was empty. The mike was gone. That meant the eavesdropper believed he had all the information he needed.

It seemed too incredible to be true: Slade was dirty. And who was he working for? Only one answer: Barbeaux.

Now D’Agosta’s vague concern about Barbeaux somehow threatening or intercepting Margo and Constance became suddenly much more specific. Barbeaux would know all that Slade knew, and that was just about everything. Specifically, he would know Margo and Constance were headed to the Museum to steal plant specimens.

D’Agosta grabbed for the phone again, then hesitated, thinking furiously. This was a tricky situation. Accusing a fellow cop of being dirty — he damn well better be right.

Was he? Was Slade dirty? Christ, all he had was a candy wrapper and a misfiled document. Not exactly a lot of evidence for destroying a man’s career.

The fact was, he couldn’t call in the cavalry. They would think he was crazy — he had less on Slade than what the DA had already rejected on Barbeaux. There was nothing else for it — he’d have to go after Margo and Constance in the Museum by himself. He might be right, and he might be wrong — but he had no choice but to act, and act quickly, because if he was right, the consequences were too terrifying to even consider.

He darted out of the office and made for the elevator as quickly as he could.

63

Margo stood there, paralyzed by the blinding light.

“Well, well, why am I not surprised?”

It was Frisby’s voice, coming from behind the light.

“Switch off that damned headlamp. You look like a miner.”

Margo complied.

“Here you are, on schedule, caught red-handed stealing one of the most valuable items in our entire herbarium.” The voice was triumphant. “This is no longer an internal Museum matter, Dr. Green. This is a criminal matter for the police. This will put you away for many years — if not for good.”

The light was lowered and Frisby — now visible behind the brilliance — extended a hand. “Give me your bag.”

Margo hesitated. What on earth was he doing down here? How had he possibly known?

“Hand me the bag or I will be forced to take it from you.”

She looked left and right for an escape route, but Frisby’s bulk blocked the way. She would have to knock him over — and he was more than half a foot taller than she.

He took a menacing step forward and, realizing she had no choice, she held out her bag. He opened it, slid out one of the glass plates, and read, in a stentorian tone: “Thismia americana.” He carefully replaced it in the bag. “Caught red-handed. You are finished, Dr. Green. Let me tell you what is going to happen now.” He took out his cell phone and held it up. “I’m going to call the police. They will arrest you. Since the value of these specimens is far in excess of five thousand dollars, you will be charged with a Class C felony, burglary in the second degree, which carries a sentence of up to fifteen years in prison.”

Margo listened, only barely comprehending. She was stupefied, because this meant the end of not just her own life — but Pendergast’s, as well.

He searched through the rest of the bag, poking around while shining the light inside. “Pity. No weapon.”

“Dr. Frisby,” Margo said in a wooden tone, “what is it you have against me?”

“Who, me, have something against you?” His eyes widened in mock satire, and then narrowed. “You’re a hindrance. You’ve been a disruption in my department with your incessant comings and goings. You’ve been meddling in a police investigation, encouraging them to cast suspicion on our staff. And now you’ve rewarded my generosity in giving you access to the collections with outright thievery. Oh, I have nothing against you.” With a frosty smile, he punched in 911 on his cell phone, holding it so she could see what he was doing.

He waited a moment, then frowned. “Bloody reception.”

“Listen,” Margo managed to say. “A man’s life—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, spare me the pathetic excuses. You played a nasty trick on Jörgensen, got him all riled up. He came boiling into my office and I feared he might have a heart attack. When I heard you’d been in his office asking for access to a rare, extinct plant, I figured you were up to something. What were you pla

He gri

A thousand ideas raced through Margo’s head. She could run; she could snatch the bag; she could knock Frisby down and escape; she could plead with him, try to talk him out of it; she could try to bribe him… But not a single option had the slightest chance of success. She was busted, and that was that. Pendergast would die.

For a moment the two stared at each other. Margo could see from the expression on Frisby’s face that there would be no mercy from this man.

And then his look of triumph suddenly changed: first to one of puzzlement, then to shock. His eyes grew wide and bugged out; his lips contracted. He opened his mouth but no sound came out, save for a strange boiling in the back of his throat. He dropped the flashlight, which hit the stone floor and went out, plunging the room into darkness. Instinctively, Margo reached out and snatched back her bag with nerveless fingers. A moment later she heard the sound of his body hitting the floor.

And then a new light came on, revealing the outline of a man who had been standing behind Frisby. He stepped forward and, in an act of courtesy, shone the light on his own face, revealing a shortish man with a dark face, black eyes, and the very faintest of smiles playing at the corners of his mouth.